


san's wine

by mysteriousAkavir (skirfer)



Series: the golden age [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fluff, dumb shy girlfriends, tall nords and short bretons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skirfer/pseuds/mysteriousAkavir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's something in Evette San's wine that gets people talking.</p><p>Serana explores her relationship with the Breton Arch-Mage one evening in the courtyard of the Bards College. She does not regret it until the following morning.</p><p>One shot set in a canon-divergence AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	san's wine

**Author's Note:**

> i really had to get this out of my system. their dynamic kills me. serana loves your pc so much.

The cure had  _worked._

Serana rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms. Having worn armors and robes that covered her skin entirely for countless years, she felt obscene just taking her gloves off. How the Breton coaxed her into the tavern garb that bared her arms (much more than her arms) completely was beyond her. She felt _exposed_. Well, she was exposed, but the draftiness definitely didn't let her forget what she was wearing.

"Are you nervous?" Annabeth asked, walking halfway out the door to the Winking Skeever and into the noon. 

Serana laughed shakily. "Me? No, never. It's not like I could just burst into flames or anything."

The Breton scoffed, and tugged her out the door by her wrist, stopping to let her skulk in the small shadow outside the inn. Serana couldn't help but look her up and down; the sun lit up the red in her hair, and brought out the freckles on her nose. The warmness of high noon suited her.  

Uncertainty hung heavy between the both of them. Or maybe it was just her. Would it work? Would she  _burn,_ like the other vampires at her father's wretched castle, too afraid of the sun to ever leave their hovel? Or perhaps her skin would just melt away, like a terrible nightmare, and peel off her body leaving nothing more than a skeleton. All she could do was pace under the small shade, glaring holes into the stone roof above them like it could fall at any moment. The day felt warm and heavy, and she might have even enjoyed it, if she wasn't worried about it  _killing her._  

Annabeth groaned, and leaned her shoulder against the wall. "You're going to have to come out sometime. We'll only know if it works if you let it do its job."

But that's the thing. She knew it worked. Annabeth was the Arch-Mage; she took every precaution, made every measurement six or seven times, finished and then started over, two times, three times, four times. She explained everything to Serana, discussions laden with unintelligible magical jargon, even taking a sip when Serana had her back turned and reporting that it tasted like Riften smelled ("I'm not coughing up my innards just yet, so we can be  _reasonably sure_ it won't happen to you-") all in the process of perfecting the bottled cure, to bring her back to life.

She said as much one night, poring over her notes before eyeing the strange fluids bubbling in Tolfdir's alembic. The poor man had moaned about it for weeks, and probably had no clue about what it was being used for, even after several long-winded discussions on the validity of contemporary cures for vampirism. "Vampires aren't soulless, you're just dead. Giving you a new soul is completely pointless when you have a perfectly good one we can use to bring, well, the rest of you back,"she had said, flashing her an earnest, crooked grin, and singeing her eyebrow on a flame that jumped a tad too high. Serana turned away, occupying herself with counting butterflies in the garden and hiding her smile behind her hands.

When the cure was finally finished, she presented Serana with a tiny glass vial, filled with a dark brown, sloshy concoction, and it did indeed smell and taste exactly like the mold that grew everywhere in Riften. Annabeth told her she may want to lie down, and so they moved to the Arch-Mage's bed, where she laid down with the Breton sitting next to her. And then Annabeth grabbed her one of her idle hands and held it to the spot where her heart should be, and they both felt the thin, fragile stirring in her chest grow to a fluttering heartbeat.

But nothing could change the fact that she was a Volkihar vampire, and still her mother's daughter. She half expected the Aedra, or the Daedra, or maybe just a disenfranchised Molag Bal to rain brimstone down from the heavens the minute she grew accustomed to the beating in her chest.

Here, in the brightness of the Solitude sun, Annabeth looked at her with a mix of excitement and a terrible fondness, and made Serana feel a little bolder as she approached the line between the shadow and the day.

She wet a digit in her mouth, stepped a little closer into the inviting heat of midday, and stuck her finger into the light.

And she  _did not_ burst into flames.

It wasn't like she expected. At least, she didn't think so. It was warm, bright, and she even enjoyed it a little, gazing dumbly down at her finger that was still not on fire. She must have shown it on her face, because she feels the Breton pull her other hand gently. Annabeth covers her hand with both of her own before pulling it out of the shadows, and then slowly lets the sunlight leak into her palm through the cracks in her fingers.

She is not in flames.

Annabeth takes her hand away completely, letting the sun splay across her palm. It's weighty and pleasant, the way the light hangs in the air, how it feels like a living, breathing thing. Serana only watches as she entertains herself by tracing the lines of her palm, dragging her thumbs along inside of her wrist, gauging the strength her new pulse. 

She feels a little betrayed by her own thunderous heartbeat, making a sticky heat crawl over her cheeks.

The Breton looks up, giving Serana a wide grin. "See? It's not so bad," she says. "Are you ready?"

She gives a small nod, even though her hands feel sweaty and she suddenly feels _uncomfortably hot,_ but the Breton doesn't seem to notice either as she pulls her along the cobbled streets outside the Winking Skeever.

"I heard stories about the Solitude windmill, but I'd never thought it'd be that... big," she notes idly. The streets were vast, the buildings dauntingly tall, and the hawks seemed to dip into the clouds from how high they were flying. To be in Solitude now, during the day no less, made her feel like she was falling from the sky. "The city is everything I thought it would be."

"Is it really?" Annabeth asks, swinging their joined hands back and forth. "Castle Dour reminds me a lot of the keeps back in High Rock. The Imperials never got creative with their architecture, sadly."

"Keeps in High Rock look like those castles?"

She rolls her eyes. "Everything in High Rock looks like those castles now. But we still keep some of our older palaces in working condition, thankfully."

"Palaces? Were you -"

She's cut off by the enthusiastic greeting Annabeth gives to one of the vendors at the marketplace. A winemaker. "San! How's business?"

"Very well, thanks to you," she said, belting out in hearty laughter. "Who's this? Don't look like a mercenary to me. Wait, hold on a second."

If the trader noticed the unnatural pallor of Serana's skin, she said nothing. Evette scrounges around the inside of her stall before pulling out a dark green, unlabeled bottle, the glass shiny and clean. "I've been saving that for you," she says, holding up a hand as Annabeth reaches for her coin pouch again. "There's no need for that. In fact, it's on me. It's the least I could do. Shipment's straight from Daggerfall, spiced right here. Won't let no one but Bretons buy them, on my honor."

 Annabeth slips coins through the holes of the wooden stall when Evette isn't looking, then takes the bottle with a warm smile. She's about to pop the cork open when a throng of children runs by, one of them stopping and asking her to play hide and seek.

She gives a mischievous grin, covering her eyes with both her hands. "I'll count to ten, and then I'll find all of you!" The crowd of children scatters, all laughing, running off to find corners and hovels to hide in as she counts up.  

"Eight... Nine... Ten! I'll find you all! Wait, could you hold this for me please?" Annabeth asks, handing Serana the bottle of wine. "You can have as much as you like, just leave some for me. I have to go find those kids. With my luck, I'll find them hiding in a tomb somewhere, halfway to Hjaalmarch."

After glancing around, Annabeth conjures three wolves with a flick of her wrist, and the four of them fan out in search of the children. The spectral wolves wag their tails and bark like dogs, sniffing the ground curiously. They look through everything in the streets, finding nothing until one of them catches the scent of a stray child. The children hid themselves behind gravestones and nightshade, and when they saw the wolves, they screamed excitedly and went barreling down the streets. Annabeth and her familiars ran close behind, chasing them to the outskirts of the Blue Palace.

Serana loses sight of them then, laughing to herself. The wine is heavy in her hands - she might as well try some, while she caught up. The smell is heady and potent when she uncorks it, taking a sip, decidedly  _not_ ready for the intense burning in her throat. Strong, unrefined, and painful. Like a lot of things in Skyrim, she thought idly. Even so, tasting something and not having it be the metallic tang of blood was something she hadn't done in centuries. The wine made her feel pleasant and warm.

She finally caught up to see Annabeth crouched over, conjuring flowers and butterflies and ghostly torchbugs. They were delighted and fascinated by her magic, so much so that the guards turned away when they saw the crowd of children giggling at the figures she was casting up. She made fire jump from fingertip to fingertip, and conjured tiny dancers from thin air. The children were awe-stricken, grabbing at the fire that doesn't burn and running through the swarms of formless butterflies.

Serana almost reaches her when a little girl runs up to her and waves. "Are you a wizard too? You're bigger than her, does that mean you're a better wizard?"

She laughs, crouching to get to her eye level as well. "Well, I'm not one of the wizards from the College, if that's what you mean. She's actually a much better wizard than I am. But," she says, whispering conspiratorially, "If you keep it between us, I know a little magic."

The girl's eyes widen, and she nods furiously. Serana bites down a smile, and looks around. She plucks a dead flower from a nearby rose bush, hoping she can cast a reanimation spell right, watching as expectantly as the girl when the blue sheen of dead magics crawl over the plant. The petals unfurl themselves slowly, and the bent stalk straightens itself as it blooms back a bright red.

The girl's jaw hangs agape, until she finally asks, "Can I have it?"

"Sure, but don't tell anyone where you got it."

"I won't, I promise!" she yells, scurrying off with the rest of the children, as they scamper off as a group to play tag. 

She hears laughter from behind her. "I'm going to tell a guard." She turns around and sees Annabeth leaning against a lamppost, snickering to herself. "I'll have him take me to the Jarl and I'll tell her all about the  _necromancer_ hiding in Solitude. And they'll lock you up in a cell somewhere for ruining the sanctity of their flower bushes."

"And then you can tell them all about how the Arch-Mage let her in."

Annabeth shrugs. "I'm sure they've seen scarier things than a Breton woman with a bottle of wine."

They walk on, handing the bottle to one another as they amble down the walkways, meandering from Castle Dour to the Blue Palace and back once again (carefully avoiding the Temple of the Divines, Serana notices, and is silently grateful) until the sky settles into dusk. The bright blue of the day fades into muted reds that make the stone castles around them all the more imposing, and a slight chill settles into the air. Then, it seems, the town stops moving altogether.

She thinks it's curious, the way the vendors leave their stalls, merchants leave their storefronts and patrons leave the inn, followed by the innkeeper himself, all drifting to the courtyard outside the Bard's College. Then she sees it - a great, imposing straw effigy, nailed to a post and adorned with a dilapidated bucket on its head - and realizes it must be some sort of festival, or a ceremonial tribute of some sort. Probably one dear to the townsfolk, with pastries being offered by bakers and mead being handed out in droves. 

"What's all this for?" She asks, glancing down at the other woman, who in turn craned her neck up to look at her. She forgot sometimes, how short Bretons could be. She thinks Annabeth could make a Jarl feel like a rodent in his own longhouse. 

"I'm _fairly_ sure this is some sort of festival, but the people in this hold also have a talent for summoning rituals. I would still keep a spell on hand."

"That's - that's definitely not what I meant. I meant if you know anything about what they're celebrating. I haven't exactly been around modern festivals much."

"Something's about to happen, so we'll find out soon enough," she says, glancing around as everyone draws closer to the massive straw figure.

They're too far away to hear the High Elf's speech, but she gathers that its the symbolic burning of a king. The "champions" of the festival - a strapping Wood Elf lad, beaming from ear to ear, and a disgruntled Nord woman with conspicuously furry ears - received thunderous applause, and were permitted the honor of lighting the effigy on fire. The Bosmer took the torch that was handed to him, grinning in delight as the flames began climbing up the effigy's ankles.

Serana sighs a little at the irony, taking a long drink from her wine. Funny just what ends up getting set on fire. She looks over at the mage, nursing her own bottle of wine, mesmerized by the burning, the light of the fire trailing up her freckled arms and settling on her soft features. She's very beautiful, Serana thinks, dumbfounded. A woman that could have any man on their knees at a moment's notice. Or a woman, even. But she's never talked about any prospective suitors, not even in passing. She wonders how that could be. It's very empty in the Arch-Mage's quarters, when she doesn't wander by to keep her company.

"Do you ever get lonely?" She blurts out, cringing to herself when the other woman only raises an eyebrow.  _Gods above, what am I doing?_

"In what way?"

"In," -  _By the Eight, what am I thinking -_ "In any way. In whichever way," she says.

Annabeth takes a swig of wine, and she takes her own as well, hoping to drown the other pressing questions wanting to come up. "I suppose not. I have quite a few acquaintances at the College, and some of the Dawnguard even make for good conversation."

Serana peers over the mouth of the bottle and blinks. "Just acquaintances? You must have made friends somewhere along the line," she asks.

"Tolfdir, Faralda, maybe Enthir. Phinis makes for fine debating on conjuration, and Urag isn't too bad, I guess. Hm, I suppose I do have friends," she says, sipping the wine more indulgently now. A single drop slides out of her mouth, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips.

Serana feels her cheeks heat up and thanks the Divines that the fire makes everything indiscriminately red. "Hold on - what about me? I thought we were friends." 

Annabeth turns and looks at her incredulously. "Do Nords normally take their friends out to drink all day and poke around in festivals?"

"I - Yes, I'm pretty sure they haven't changed that much since I was gone," she says slowly.

"Should I have worn one of those gaudy amulets to make it more clear?"

It takes her a moment to understand in her stupor, but when she does, Serana feels the heat rise from her chest to the very tips of her ears and knows no amount of fire or alcohol could hide how red her face is now. The Breton is still staring at her expectantly, as if she could be asked to do more than spell her own name right then. She could hear her heartbeat deafeningly loud in her own ears, doing nothing to help the stuffy heat rising up her clothes.

Annabeth shakes her head. "I was told to write you a poem by the bards here, but with the way Nords handle these things, I'm sure they would have just told me to beat you over the head with it - I should have done more research - I could've made some... _Grave_ offense and not even known about it, and maybe you would've never spoken to me again, Gods know what could have happened if I had done things any more wrong," she laughs nervously, clutching at the bottle in her lap, her knuckles white. "Though - Please do tell me if you're planning on never speaking to me again, I really, really quite like you, so it would be nice to know up front so I don't make a fool of myself in front of the entire Dawnguard when I tell them I lost you by - by - trying to  _court_ you," she ends, running a shaky hand through her hair.

"I - um," she tries to start, but never finishes. Her heart is beating too hard to think. Everything seems to settle to fog when her hands reach out to hold Annabeth's trembling fingers. Then, in her foggy, drunk, absentminded state, she tilts forward and presses her lips to hers. She tastes wine. Both of them keep their eyes wide open in disbelief, one of Annabeth's hands is doing nothing in midair, and the differences in their heights makes them both twist their heads awkwardly, but Serana still thinks it's oddly romantic, how imperfectly their mouths fit together. They only part when they hear a small crowd cheering, and that's when they remember that they are definitively not alone. 

Somehow they find themselves back at the Skeever, the entire inn devoid of patrons save for them. They stumbled awkwardly up the stairs, spilling a jug of ale and knocking over a painting in the process, but nothing troubled them as they locked the door behind them and ambled toward the bed together.

The Breton pulls her down for a kiss and Serana laughs, smiling into it. She holds her by the waist and presses her mouth firmly to hers, feeling a wraithlike giddiness rising in her chest. Then, she angles her head down and kisses and nips playfully at her neck, smirking and trailing her teeth up and down her throat when Annabeth chuckles and pulls them both toward the bed. She falls on top of her, still kissing at her pulse and running her lips up her jaw.

Annabeth unwraps her arms from her neck and cups her face, pulling it forward for a soft kiss, wrapping her legs around Serana's waist. She's on top of Annabeth's entire frame and sighing at how warm it is, her hands clutching at the sheets on either side of her. The Breton moans under her, and Serana slides her tongue into her mouth, still tasting wine and sweets and their shared breaths. Annabeth tangles her fingers in her hair, pulling out the braids and holding her body closer. Everything is heat and warmth and fire, in her mouth and against her.

They don't part until they can't even aim their own mouths right, Annabeth's lips missing hers entirely and landing on her chin or her nose. They were too clumsy to undress, so they concede defeat, fall on their sides and drape their arms around each other. Annabeth laughs tiredly, pressing their foreheads together.

"Your eyes are a lovely color."

Serana gives her lips a lazy kiss, running the tips of her fingers up her back. She could hardly remember what color her eyes were. She couldn't even remember her own name.

"Do all Nords try to consummate a relationship at the first sign of interest?" 

"Some."

The Breton lays a hand on her jaw and strokes her cheek, huddling closer. "Maybe tomorrow we'll have better luck." 

"Will you even remember in the morning?"

"Will you?"

"Yes."

Annabeth yawns, pressing her nose into Serana's neck. "Then so will I."

* * *

 

 

When she wakes up she smells  _goats._

Serana groans, feeling like the King's cavalry trampled her in her sleep. And there's  _goat hair_ plastered to one side of her face. She cracks her eyes open and doesn't see the warm light of a tavern, instead seeing the cold blue glow of conjured magelight. And, more notably, there's a distinctly empty feeling in her chest. She lets out a disheartened sigh into her elbow, and thinks Vaermina is a flighty whore.

It's cold in the Arch-Mage's quarters, frigid air seeping in through her baggy tunic. It's the same one she's been wearing for a thousand years, the boring, faded red one she wears under her armor. She frowns. It was disappointingly comical how she'd fallen asleep, curled up in a chair with her knees up and her head bent over the goat hide on the cabinet next to her. And she may have been drooling.

She stretches her legs out, and tries to rub the soreness from her neck. It's useless, of course, like everything else she does, she thinks bitterly. There's a clinking coming from the rest of the quarters - a mortar and pestle. The Arch-Mage was still up making potions.

Serana peeks her head out from the half-concealed bedchamber, the infuriatingly bright blue glare making it hard to see anything beyond her fingertips. Tomes are scattered everywhere on the floor, open on top of each other, ingredients thrown haphazardly onto shelves and on top of even more books. The mess Annabeth made of her quarters is disastrous.

Then she catches sight of her, bent over the alchemy table, spouting quiet curses at the malfunctioning poultices. Her leggings are  _snug_ without a mage robe to cover them up. She swallows thickly, briefly remembering how her body felt sliding against her own, until she feels an uncomfortable throbbing between her legs.

She coughs, and the Arch-Mage waves a hand in greeting but doesn't look up from her work. "Sleep well? You were out for quite a while," she notes, pointing to the open ceiling of the garden. The sky was a menacing black and devoid of stars, claps of thunder shaking the tower.

"I had a dream. It was nice," she says, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Dream? I didn't even know vampires could dream. That's fascinating. And the storm didn't wake you?"

She approaches the alchemy table and grabs a mortar herself, eyeing the recipe Annabeth scribbled out hastily. "It didn't. How long has it been since you slept?"

Annabeth waves the pestle around. "It hasn't been too long. It's not been a day yet."

"What's got you up this late?" she asks, putting together a poultice to refine into a health potion. There's dozens of them lined up on the shelves, the collection of bottles spilling over onto the tables nearby and on the floor as well. Enough to service a battalion. 

"Commission from the Jarl, potions for the guards fending off the wolves this time of year."

She purses her lips. That can't be it. "But that's not what's bothering you."

Annabeth's hands stutter. She places the mortar down shakily, and clutches down on the side of the alchemy table. Serana stops and stares, then puts down her own mortar and runs a finger over her white knuckles. "Is something wrong?"

She looks up, eyes wide and afraid. "You're not going to like this."

"You can tell me."

"Urag sent an apprentice up to tell me that there's a man in the Arcanaeum, asking if we know where to get an Elder Scroll."

 

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't really the first part of a series, its just something i threw into the universe that doesnt really have a chronological order. just wanted to write it out :) planning on something with the bug jar conspiracy. thank you for reading, have a lovely evening or day or night or whenever :)
> 
> edit: i changed her namE because im indecisive and this was spur of the moment forgive me


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